Tainted Love
by ibreak4CSI
Summary: PC - He's gotten too comfortable, too accustomed to his own role in their little play; has forgotten just how explosive the situation between the two of them really is.


**Summary:** He's gotten too comfortable, too used to his own role in their little play; has forgotten just _how_ explosive the situation between the two of them really is.

**Notes: **This one's my baby. I've been working on it for a long time, and I'm finally done. You don't even know HOW much I would love you for reviewing this. It is, without a doubt, my favorite Paire fic that I have written, and I hope you enjoy!

**Rating:** R

**Genre:** Angst, Romance

**Warning:** 'Cesty. That's just the way I roll. (Well, not ME, literally. LOL, ew.) It's also a little darker than what I usually write.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything associated with the television show _Heroes_.

**Tainted Love**

She isn't this girl.

She isn't sick or twisted. She's not disturbed. She's not a niece lusting after her own uncle. She picks up the shot glass - her fourth, fifth maybe? - and she isn't this girl or that girl, or any girl at all, in fact, because she's no longer anything at all. She tilts her head back, letting the fiery liquid sting her throat like hell and laughs inwardly at the symbolism.

Because that's where she's going; straight to hell. Thinking thoughts like this on today, of all days. As of three hours ago, there's now a Mr. and Mrs. Fucking Peter Petrelli, and God, what she would give to be doing just that.

They had come close, once. At least Claire likes to think so. He walked in on her a few weeks before, while she was changing out of her bridesmaid dress. The dress she was trying on for _his_ wedding. Yes, she had gotten roped into being one. How, she'll never know.

Oh, wait, yes she does. She did because Peter had asked her; and God knew that he could ask her to do the worst thing the most sadistic person on earth could possibly think up, and she'd still come back asking, begging, _pleading_ for more.

She had been practically naked; standing there before him clad in nothing but the slightly transparent lace of her bra, garters, and thong, and the thin nylon of her panty hose.

Claire had grabbed wildly for her blouse when the door started to open, but her arm froze in mid-air, breath suddenly forced from her lungs, when she saw who it was.

He seemed to be affected by a similar affliction, because not a single muscle of his flexed beneath that perfect, lightly tanned skin for at least ten seconds. Any thought of covering herself flew out the window; she could only watch Peter.

She watched as his breathing quickened, eyes darkening dangerously. He was on the brink of losing control, and, God help her, she _wanted_ him to. Goosebumps prickled the delicate skin on her arms as she pictured him rushing toward her, kissing her, pressing her up against the wall and doing everything to her she had ever wanted, and more.

Suddenly, he was moving forward, and Claire must have been more lost in her fantasy than she realized because it took her a moment to comprehend the action. By the time her mind was caught up, he was less than a foot away from her, breath being harshly inhaled and exhaled at breakneck speed.

Still, she didn't move.

His fingers snatched her chin roughly, shoving her head back so that their eyes met. The molten darkness of his forced her stomach into knots; there was no pretense between them. No words were spoken, but a blind person would not have been oblivious to the heavy sexual tension that invaded every square centimeter of the room.

Claire doesn't know how long they stayed like that; she only knows that it was entirely too soon when Peter suddenly blinked, a look of what appeared to be near-horror covering his attractive features as he backed away slowly, turned, and walked away, slamming the door behind him as if he were also shutting the scene out of his memory, forbidding it to ever come back.

Claire doesn't know if he succeeded in that, but she knows that she certainly didn't. It came back every single night in her dreams; most of the time it ends differently. She moans in ecstasy, and wakes to an unsatisfied throb between her thighs. At others, it ends exactly the same, and she wakes to the salty wetness of tears soaking her pillow, because she wants him, needs him, loves him, so _damn_ much that it physically hurts to relive his harsh rejection.

She tells herself that it was logical. He was engaged, for crying out loud. He wasn't going to throw all that away for a forbidden tryst with his niece.

That doesn't stop it from hurting, though, and she curses her power for only having the ability to heal physical wounds and not emotional ones as well.

Strangers at the bar try to pick her up. She ignores them all, until the third one says that his name is Peter.

He's a little shorter, a little younger, with hair a little lighter than the _real_ thing. But he's a lot less related to her and a lot more available, and the moment he says that, she knows she is going to sleep with him.

She wonders if that's wrong.

Because she does. Five sentences of small talk and fifteen minutes later, they are in the nearby hotel, fucking on the bed as she grasps the headboard. He isn't good, and she has to help herself along, and when she comes, she cries out "Peter!" and there's no way for him to know that she's picturing her uncle because that's the kind of sick freak she is.

He falls asleep immediately afterwards, and Claire picks up her ruined bridesmaid dress, disgusted and not even remotely satisfied. She dresses furiously, managing to snag the zipper a half a dozen times before finally leaving it partially undone.

She doesn't care that her actions of the past twenty minutes are blatantly obvious to anyone who comes within a fifteen foot radius of her, courtesy of the state of her clothing, smeared make up, and unkempt, disheveled hair. She just has to move, move, keep moving.

Claire keeps moving for months on end, and soon enough, it's her birthday. Her twenty-second; another year older, another year gone, no future to look forward to except the pain of loving someone who will never be hers.

Of course there's a party. Two, actually. One is a fancy affair where Nathan and Angela are in charge of the guest list because only the _right_ people need to be impressed; and one for family only. She gets through the first with a champagne glass in hand, clenched teeth, and a well-practiced smile.

The second is more difficult; the obvious reason is that it's held at Peter and his _wife_'s house. It's the first event they've held at their home, and Peter beams with pride. Except that he doesn't, because he smiles and he laughs, and everyone else is fooled. Everyone but Claire, the only one to notice the deadness in his eyes, the flat, metallic ring of his laugh. He isn't happy.

Part of her is glad to think of it, and the other part hates herself for the aforementioned part. She's not some heartless, selfish bitch; she should want Peter to be happy. But she doesn't. Not unless it's with her.

She ignores him, for the most part. After exchanging pleasantries at the door, she speaks to him only when spoken to, and then only after she pauses a second to make absolutely sure that her mask is on. The mask that she likes to think hides the _real_ Claire from him, but she knows the only person she's fooling with that thought is herself because he can see through any of her façades just as easily as she can see through his.

There is a connection between them; always has been. Claire thinks that everyone else could see it if they tried, but this is elite New York; everyone walks around with blinders limiting their vision, oblivious to things they don't want to see.

After an hour of the so-called party (which is really just a contest of who can drink the most while tip-toeing around the most irrelevant small talk, so as not to cause an argument - those are saved for Sunday dinners), Claire has nearly reached the end of her patience.

If one more person mentioned politics or the weather, she was going to scream.

"How about some cake?" Peter's wife asks, breaking momentary silence.

"Yeah. Cake." Peter echoes, from his position in the chair across the room from Claire. She can't help that her eyes follow and memorize every movement of every appendage and every muscle as he unfolds himself from the expensive leather furniture and gets to his feet.

"Sounds like a good idea to me." Claire agrees, her voice annoyingly cheery to her own ears, and she gets a chilly, disapproving smile from Angela.

"You know you shouldn't eat very much cake, dear." The endearment is bitten off at the end, hard and frost-bitten, used only for appearances. "You need to watch your figure for the upcoming events."

Claire grinds her teeth into what she hopes vaguely resembles a smile. "I know. I will only have a little."

"It is her party, after all," Peter chimes in, slipping back into his role of the always friendly, helpful uncle.

Angela nods, her expression saying all there is to say.

"I'll go get it ready." Peter's wife says.

"I'll help you." Claire speaks before her brain can register what she's saying, and she wonders what in the hell her mouth was thinking.

"Oh, thank you." The smile is sweet, and it makes Claire want to throw up.

"No problem." She stands just as Peter sits, no doubt not wanting to be alone in a room with the two of them.

They go into the kitchen, and settle into a silent routine. Peter's wife getting the candles and placing them on the cake - against Claire's wishes - and Claire getting the matches. Peter's wife calls everyone into the dining room as Claire lights the candles. One, two, three, four lit. She makes it to eight before she has to blow out the match and light another. Nine, ten, eleven...she makes it to nineteen, twenty, twenty-one...she drops the match with a gasp, the ends of two of her fingers smarting from coming into contact with the small flame.

She ignores a couple worried comments as she hurries to the kitchen to run cool water over the tender flesh. One tear manages to snake down her cheek, but she blinks the rest of them back.

The door opens behind her, and a few seconds later, there is a familiar hand resting on her shoulder - a hand whose shape and feel and texture she would know anywhere, burning straight through her clothes and down into her soul with more precision than any flame.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. It just got me a little."

"Good." He waits about a minute before he speaks again. "Cake?"

"Sounds good." Claire smiles - a real one - and Peter hands her a soft towel to dab her fingers with before they head back to the dining room.

His wife re-lights the candles when she sees them, and motions for Claire to blow them out. As Claire moves to do so, she hears his wife murmur "You're so sweet," and out of the corner of her eye, sees them kiss.

Her breath chokes in her throat, and Claire is glad that she has the excuse of making a wish when she shuts her eyes hard against the image, wishing she could erase it from her brain as easily as she erased it from her sight.

Somehow, a few seconds later, none of the candles are flickering any longer. That must have been her doing, but she isn't sure how she managed it.

She cuts herself the biggest piece, and pretends not to see Angela shooting her death glares from the other corner of the room.

The rest of the day is uneventful, with more liquor and small talk and boring presents.

She cries that night in her apartment, sitting on her couch in front of the blank television.

Damn her. Damn him. Damn them. Damn them and their stupid, perfect house and nausea-inducing kisses.

There's a knock at the door, and somehow, she just knows that it's Peter.

It's always Peter.

She opens the door for him without a word, stepping aside to let him in.

"I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday again, and make sure you were doing al-" He cuts himself short when she flips the lights on.

Claire can only assume it's because he sees her red, swollen eyes, the ruined make-up, the tear stains.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She gives him a small, pathetic smile. "This just wasn't my greatest birthday." She holds up her two fingers as an excuse.

"I'm sorry." He really means it, and her heart pangs as she sees in his eyes how much pain it causes him to see her like this. He moves closer, placing a hand on each of her arms, looking at her deeply. "That's not all, is it?"

He always could see straight through her lies. His proximity is doing strange things to her heart, and she wishes he would back away a couple steps. He's gotten too comfortable, too used to his own role in their little play, has forgotten just _how_ explosive the situation between the two of them really is.

She hasn't forgotten, but at the moment, she really doesn't care. All Claire knows is that he is standing _this_ close to her, holding her, looking at her with more care and concern and emotion in his eyes than she had ever seen him

"No. It's just a bunch of little things, really." No way she was going to tell him that she was crying about him. That went completely against the rules of their game.

"Oh, Claire," he sighs, and somehow, he's getting closer, but the reason doesn't quite compute.

Everything's moving in slow motion now, and she wants to ask him what he is doing. (Later, she would realize, she couldn't have even if she tried.)

She's frozen, longing, questioning, begging.

His face looms closer.

Her breath is burning, trapped in her lungs, the air around them crackling with static.

Closer, closer, so close...

Searing heat reverberates up and down her spine the instant their lips meet.

It is only meant to be a chaste reassurance - or at least Claire's sure that's what Peter is telling himself - but it is _so_ much more than that. It only lasts a fraction of a second, but in that time, the entire fragile world they have built around themselves comes to a shocking, grinding, explosive halt.

He felt it, too. He could deny it a million times, but Claire would still be completely certain. She doesn't know what it is, but she _knows_ he wants her, wants this, too. Always has.

He's backed away, but only a little. He's trying to tell her that it _was_ just an innocent, familial peck. But he can't seem to tear himself away from her, and he's hoping that she'll move because he isn't able to.

And in that, he's asking _her_ to be the noble one, the role that has always been played by him.

Well, that's just too damn bad.

She steps forward, just a little, and he steps back. She can see by the way that his eyes squeeze shut for the briefest of moments that it takes near super-human strength for him to do that. She repeats, as does he. One more time, and he's against a wall.

This time, she steps forward, but he doesn't move.

Her breathing is hitched, her heart speeding a million times an minute, but from anticipation and adrenaline, not nervousness. She knows what she wants; knows he wants it, too.

She's just waited for so long, she can barely grasp the thought that the moment is finally _here_. That it really is going to happen.

"Peter," she whispers, and her voice is a little breathless and husky, though she hadn't done it on purpose.

"We can't."

Words are his sole defense now, and he denies his feelings even as he has to clench his fists to keep from reaching up and pulling her toward him.

"We can." Her voice is calm.

"It's wrong."

"I don't care."

"It's sick."

He's running out of words, and Claire watches the battle rage inside his eyes, knowing that the side in her favor is soon going to claim victory over the other.

"I don't care."

"I'm _married_."

"_Peter_." She leans forward even more until they are so close all she can see are his dilated pupils. "I. Don't. Fucking. Care."

His breath is coming in gasps. "It's...I-I..._God_, I need you."

She can practically hear his self-control rip in two with those words, the remnants raining down all around them as he gathers her to him roughly and kisses her like there's no tomorrow.

He grabs her hips, spins them around, and it's Claire up against the wall instead of him, but she doesn't even notice. He lifts her up, kissing her the whole time, and she wraps her legs around his waist, grinding her pelvis against him.

He moans into her mouth, tongue mirroring the actions of his hips as he rocks against her just a little.

Claire can hardly breathe, but she doesn't even care, because they're _finally_ together. She kisses him. Gasps for breath. Thrusts her tongue against his. Gasps for breath. Sucks his bottom lip _hard_. Gasps for breath.

Peter must be in the same boat that she is, and he removes his mouth from her own to trail little kisses and nips all down her throat. She inhales harshly as he drags his teeth and tongue on _that_ spot right near her ear. She can feel him smile at her reaction.

"Pete-" She cuts herself off with a small scream issued from her own throat as he suddenly thrusts a hand down between their hips, touching her in _just_ the right place. He starts to rub, but she reaches down to stop him.

"Now."

He doesn't question her. Instead, he starts to tug her underwear off, but Claire doesn't want to wait for that. She helps him rip them away, and as she drops them to the floor, Peter undoes his own zipper.

The events after that are simply a haze of friction and rhythm and sweat-soaked skin, moans and screams and sensations so intense, they are beyond _anything_ Claire has ever experienced or imagined. When she slowly fades back into consciousness, enveloped in post-orgasmic bliss, she realizes that they're on the floor, but she has no memory of them moving there. She shrugs a little to herself, and Peter presses a kiss to her shoulder.

The way they are lying, she is facing him, her eyes about level with his cheeks when he's not looking down at her. He reaches out and takes her hand, enveloping it in his own before dragging it up and brushing the sensitive skin on her wrist with his incredibly tender, sexy lips.

He gazes down at their entwined fingers. "I tried so hard not to do this."

"Do you regret it?"

He doesn't even pause, doesn't hesitate for the merest breath of a second.

"Never."

His eyes are dark, and his hand tightens around hers possessively, and Claire knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's true.

"Me neither."

* * *

"You _fucked_ your _niece_! _HOW_ am I supposed to understand that?"

"I don't expect you to." Peter's voice is ominously calm, flat, devoid of emotion. Five months. That's how long they had gone without getting caught.

Tonight, their luck had ended.

"Damn right you shouldn't! I always knew there was something not right about the two of you, but God! I would have thought you were a better man than that, Peter!"

There's a small sound as Peter starts to speak, but she cuts him off.

"Don't _even_ fucking talk to me right now. In fact, don't talk to me ever. You'll hear from my lawyers tomorrow, you sick bastard. I can't believe I married you."

The crack of the front door slamming against the frame is deafening, and Claire swears she can feel the imposing mansion shaking from the impact, as she stands hidden in the shadows of the top stairs.

Peter hasn't moved, is still standing there, staring into thin air. His posture suggests someone who is incredibly relieved.

Four hours later, they're in bed together, and Peter sleepily reaches over to answer his cell phone.

She's dead. Stumbled drunkenly into the street, wearing dark clothes. The cab driver never saw her.

Claire doesn't cry at the funeral, and neither does Peter.

He plays the part of the grieving widower well, though. But it's guilt that accounts for the gravity of his features, not sadness.

If only they'd been more discreet.

If only his wife hadn't come to the Petrelli mansion early to surprise him...

"If only you hadn't started this in the first place!" He lashes out at her two weeks later, the first time he has spoken to her since _that_ night.

They're in his new apartment, boxes heavily cluttering the moderately sized living room. His house has already been sold - New York real estate is a very expeditious business - and he's living here now.

"Don't even give me that, you were right there with me! In fact, _who_ kissed whom first?" She asks harshly, voice raised, as she steps closer.

"_That_ was not a real kiss! It was a gesture to make you feel better."

"Bullshit. _Any_ kiss between us is real, Peter Petrelli, and you know it!"

"So I had a momentary lapse! I _stopped_."

"We both knew once we started, we wouldn't stop." Her chest heaves as she moves forward even more, her face only inches from his. "We'll _never_ stop."

His mouth is suddenly covering hers with crushing force, but it doesn't take her off guard. She expects it as much as she expects to take her next breath - he's a part of her.

She kisses him back with an equal amount of passion, pressing herself as hard as she can against his body.

Their hearts beat perfectly in sync as they fall back onto Claire's couch, his lithe frame covering her tiny one.

He tangles his fingers in her hair, kissing her deeper and deeper, still..._I love you._

She scratches her nails over his back, arching into him and whispering his name..._I love you, too._

What they have isn't right. It's wrong and sinful and exquisitely twisted.

But it's theirs. And it will _never_ stop.

**The End**


End file.
